


Things Found in the Woods

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Big Brother Mycroft, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty five years ago Mycroft Holmes found a babe in the woods. Now Sherlock is investigating a series of murders. But he'll find more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

Mycroft Holmes explored the woods near Grandmother’s home. Mummy and Daddy were off attending some conference, so he was staying with Grandmother for a week or so. Sometimes he wished he had a friend or two, but the other boys were mean and jealous and didn’t like that he knew more than them. He’d already overhead Mummy and Daddy discussing putting him into another boarding school come fall, but he suspected he’d have similar issues no matter where he went.

But for now it was summer holidays and he was free to read and roam as long as he checked in with Grandmother and came back for tea and supper. He liked staying with her and exploring the old, old forest. There were ruins in the deeper part of the woods, fallen down watchtowers and overgrown roads. Another child might have been scared, but Mycroft was just curious.

Today he was down by the creek, observing the frogs and the fish. He was in the deep woods, crouching by the ruins of what was once a house. Mycroft had already deduced the house: It had been a small cottage, one big room. The fireplace was at one end and part of it still stood, but the rest had been wood and long since rotted and fallen away. He’d found a few treasures in the earth, old coins, a couple tiny figurines and a tin spoon. A tall tree had sprung up from the middle of the house, casting enough shade that little else grew around it.

There was a noise behind him; not a deer. He stood and turned, looking back at the ruined cottage. There was something in the roots of the tree. It looked like a bundle of rags and it certainly hadn’t been there before.

Mycroft hesitated as he saw it move, then stepped forward, through the vanished doorway. He cautiously approached it, hearing another small noise, different than before. He peered down and was utterly shocked to see it was an infant with startling blue eyes and dark curly hair.

Carefully he crouched down and picked up the baby as carefully as he could. He might be only seven, but he knew babies were fragile things. As he shifted the child he could see his eyes weren’t exactly blue, but also green, and a little brown. “Where did you come from?” he asked out loud, even if it was ridiculous.

The baby didn’t answer, just reached out and touched Mycroft’s nose. Mycroft smiled. “Well you’ve got to have a mum and dad somewhere. I bet Grandmother can help us find them.”

He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone. For a moment he thought he heard a whisper in the wind, but then it was gone. He frowned and headed for Grandmother’s. 

**

Grandmother gave him a knowing smile as she looked the child over. “In the deep woods?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “In the old cottage. The one with the tree in the middle.”

She nodded and pulled some formula out of the back of a cupboard. “Would you like to feed him?”

“Aren’t you going to call the police? Someone would miss a child.” He sat on her sofa and let her put the boy in his lap, returning a minute later with a bottle.

“I can make the call, but I think maybe he’s yours. I know you’ve wanted a little brother.” She sat next to him and watched.

Mycroft blushed. “I know how babies are made. I found a book about it. I know I didn’t make a baby.”

Grandmother laughed. “Not that way, of course. But he’s a special child. You must always watch over him.”

“I will Grandmother, I will.”

 

_Thirty-Five Years Later_

“Go away, Mycroft.” Sherlock walked in the door, past John and Mycroft, and went straight to the kettle.

Mycroft gave his brother’s back a smile. “I’ve got a case for you.”

“Busy. No time.” Sherlock stared at the kettle as if trying to make it go faster. Perhaps it did.

“It’s a series of murders. Apparently all involved with a project to develop an old patch of woods into a house development.”

“Environmentalists?” asked John.

Sherlock scoffed. “No.” He fixed his tea and stood in the doorway from the kitchen. “He wouldn’t be here if it were that.”

Mycroft shifted his umbrella. “I feel that you, Sherlock, would be uniquely qualified to look into this. Even more so than usual.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John looked between the brothers as if trying to figure out what they were saying to each other with just looks and postures.

“Fine,” said Sherlock after a minute. “Sending Lestrade this time?”

“I suppose that depends on if you use my ID to penetrate a top secret base. Doctor Watson, you may want to go pack.”

“So might Sherlock,” said John, not moving or accepting the dismissal.

Mycroft sighed and stood. He took out two train tickets and set them on the table, then pulled out a sealed envelope. “Open this when you get there. Contact me if you have questions.” He put the envelope in Sherlock’s hand and strode out the door, hoping that everything would work out.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked out the window as they reached the town, not too far from London. “Nice enough place; I can see why folks would want to move here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was certain he was seeing every crack and flaw in the place. He led the way out into the town proper. He seemed a bit more on edge than usual, but perhaps it was just being out of London.

John’s phone alerted. “We’ve got rooms, apparently,” he said.

“Of course we do. Mycroft’s leaving very little to chance.” Sherlock looked around as they walked.

“Do you know why?” John followed him towards the hotel.

“Not yet. A few dead developers isn’t a matter of national security.” Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked through the door.

They checked into the hotel. John noticed that his room was right next to Sherlock’s, but they did, at least, have separate rooms. Connected by a door, Sherlock soon discovered.

John smiled as Sherlock popped his head in. “Couldn’t resist a door, could you?”

“It was easy enough to unlock,” huffed Sherlock, stepping into the room. He’d taken off his coat and scarf, looking slightly rumpled from the travel. 

John ignored the way that made him feel and smiled instead. “Let’s get dinner. The restaurant downstairs looked nice.”

“If you insist.”

Of course Sherlock never ate much, but John still made sure he at least ordered something. If they were on Mycroft’s dime, might as well make the most of it. “Are we starting tonight, or in the morning?”

“I’ll need to speak with the local police. See the crime scenes and the autopsies.”

“Already arranged,” said a familiar voice as Greg pulled up a chair and sat tiredly between them. ”Guess he figured it would be easier to get that done with me around. Don’t suppose you’ve figured what this is all about yet, have you? Mycroft seemed, well, _worried_.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“We should look at the woods too, right?” said John. “Did you find anything about them?”

Greg nodded and took a piece of bread. “Used to be part of a property belonging to a minor noble. Land got divided up and sold off when he died. First victim was the one who bought the forest lot and then turned around and made a deal with the developers.”

“So who owns it now?”

“Technically her son. The deal wasn’t finalized when everyone started dropping off.”

“I’ll need to talk to him as well,” said Sherlock.

“Tomorrow,” said Greg. “It’s late. I’m going to bed. But I’d like to go with you. This whole thing is starting to feel like one of those faerie stories my gran would tell.”

Sherlock looked at him. “How so?”

“Well it’s an old wood, yeah? No telling what might in there that doesn’t want found or disturbed.” Greg watched Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock scoffed. “Children’s stories.”

Greg smiled at him and stood. “Night. See you in the morning.”

John kept eating, letting Sherlock lapse into thought. Finally he put down his fork. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked a few times before focusing on John. “Hmm?”

“Eat a bit before we go.”

Sherlock scowled but picked up his fork, eating a few bites under John’s watchful eye before putting it down again.

John gave him an affectionate smile. “You open that letter from your brother?”

“No. It’s still in my coat.”

“Let’s go upstairs, then. I do need to sleep and maybe you should give it a read.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock stretched like a cat. He fiddled with his mobile as they walked back to their rooms.

“Something on your mind, Sherlock?” John asked. “More than usual?”

Sherlock glanced at him. “No. I am researching the land and village.”

“Okay,” John gave him a smile as they reached the doors. He paused with one hand on the knob. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock muttered something and went into his own room. John sighed, smiled softly and went on in to wash up and go to sleep.

He was halfway through brushing his teeth and standing in just his pants when the door opened between their rooms. John spat in the sink and stepped out. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“Did you take the letter?”

“Why would I do that? Is it missing?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock stepped fully into his room and looked around.

John watched him. “Did you call Mycroft? It must have been important.”

“No. Nothing else in my room was disturbed. Only the letter was missing.” Sherlock frowned and raised his head as if he was listening.

“Did you hear something?” asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t believe so.” But John knew by the look on his face that he was lying.

Shrugging, John went to finish brushing his teeth. When he came out again, Sherlock was perched at the end of his bed, clearly thinking. John watched him, climbing between the sheets. Sherlock remained unmoving, so John turned off the light and settled back. Light still spilled from the other room, but he closed his eyes, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

John’s dreams were filled with fire and blood. He lay over an injured man, shielding him with his own body even as he struggled to keep the man’s life from slipping away. The metallic tang of blood was always familiar, but the rest didn’t smell like the desert winds of Afghanistan. His nose twitched at the scents of oak and pine, of wet stones, damp earth, and old moss. “Hold on, lad, hold on…”

John jerked awake with a gasp, sheets thrown off his chest, heart pounding. It was still dark outside, the only light spilling in from the other room. A dark shadow perched at the end of the bed and it took him a moment to realize it was Sherlock. His heart skipped as he felt those verdigris eyes turn his way.

Without seeming to move, Sherlock slid closer, resting a hand on John’s leg over the covers and murmuring softly. John couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like something ancient, as if he were listening to an old river, not Sherlock.

Whatever it was, John soon relaxed. Sherlock’s hand was warm and intimate in a way they rarely, if ever, allowed themselves. Despite his efforts to listen, John soon dropped asleep again.

**

John woke early from habit. He stretched and sat up. It felt like he’d had dreams, but he couldn’t place them. Sherlock wasn’t present, but the door was ajar. He got up and peeked in, finding Sherlock curled up and asleep on the far edge of his bed. He turned back, going to take a shower and dressing. He walked into Sherlock’s room and nudged him. “Come on, let’s start the day.”

Sherlock sat up and yawned. “Very well. Bring your gun.”

“To the morgue?” asked John with a smile.

“There will be multiple stops.” Sherlock got up and started dressing with little regard to modesty.

John made himself look away and headed back to his own room, gathering his gun and putting it in his pocket.

“Lestrade will be downstairs with drinks and breakfast,” said Sherlock , standing in the doorway between their rooms.

“Are you going to call Mycroft about the letter?”

“I doubt it was that important,” said Sherlock, pulling on his coat. “Otherwise he would have simply told me.”

John shook his head. “Sometimes writing things down is easier than saying them aloud.” He followed Sherlock down the hall.

“Mycroft has never had any particular difficulty in expressing himself to me.”

John watched Sherlock’s back, thinking about how wrong that particular statement was. There were novels of things unsaid between the two of them. But if Sherlock chose to believe that and refused to call his brother, there was precious little John could do about it, at least right now.

As promised Greg was waiting with a bag of pastries and a tray of drinks; tea for Sherlock and John, coffee for himself. “Knew you two would come sooner rather than later,” he said, sipping his drink as they walked out.

John put a pastry in Sherlock’s hand and took one for himself. “Where to first?”

“Morgue is closest,” said Greg.

“Then we’ll go there first,” answered Sherlock. “Cause of death?”

“That’s the odd thing. All the deaths could almost be considered natural, or at least acts of God. But they’re not?”

Sherlock fixed him with a look. “Explain.”

“One was crushed by a tree that wasn’t there the day before. Another drowned in a puddle on a sunny day.”

“Impossible,” said Sherlock. “I’ll need to see the crime scenes.”

“Of course,” smiled Greg.

They reached the morgue in record time. Greg spoke to those running the place and soon enough the three of them were being led back to examine the bodies.

“This was the woman who bought the land,” said the nervous sounding man in charge. “As you can see cause of death was these contusions.”

“This was the one struck by the tree,” said Greg.

“Yes. Neighbors testified that there had never been a tree there before.”

Sherlock scoffed but examined the body. After that was the one who’d drowned. The third had seemingly fallen from a great height but was found just outside their home, with no trees or hills around them.

“I thought there were four victims,” asked Sherlock.

The man swallowed anxiously. “The body is missing.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow made a break for his hairline. “Missing? You may be wearing mismatched socks and forgot to feed your dog this morning, but certainly you didn’t lose an entire body.”

“It’s not there.” He went to the clearly labeled drawer and opened it. Sure enough, it was empty. “This was the youngest victim. Reginald Jones, age thirty-five. He appeared to have suffocated when we brought him in.”

Sherlock turned to Greg. “I need to see the crime scene.”

“Figured, yeah. Come on.”


	4. Chapter 4

Greg led the way back out and they headed to a tidy house on the edge of town. A few police were milling about, no doubt warned of Sherlock’s arrival. Greg went to talk to them while Sherlock ducked under the police tape and stepped inside.

The house was well lit, the curtains drawn, looking the perfect picture of a quiet, well to do, English home. Sherlock peered around carefully, John patiently following behind, until Greg finally met them again in the kitchen.

“He was found in his bedroom, this way.”

Sherlock surveyed the room moments later. “Nothing has been disturbed?”

“Not aside from removing the body. They said there was no sign of struggle in the room, and no murder weapon to be found.”

Sherlock waved him to silence. Greg rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, watching the detective. John wondered just what he’d hope to find in a room that looked just this side of immaculate.

Suddenly, Sherlock darted forward and pulled something from behind the dresser. It was a single leaf, looking just touched by fall. “Was the window open?”

“No,” said Greg, “not according to the report.”

John walked over and looked out at the man’s garden.

“There’s no trees with that sort of leaf anyway, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned and made his way over, flinging the window open. A breeze caught the leaf and it slipped from his hand, floating down towards the garden.

Turning, Sherlock hurried down the stairs and out into the garden. John and Greg shared a look before following him. They found Sherlock standing in the middle of the garden, holding the leaf again and looking at the few trees around him.

“Only place ‘round here with that sorta leaf is the old forest,” said one of the local officers, seeing the way Sherlock looked around.

Sherlock turned on her. “The same old forest that was being sold?”

“Well, yeah.” She met his gaze steadily. “There’s stories about that forest you know.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Fairy tales.” He turned away.

“It’s old,” she continued. “It was on the Baron’s land, but nobody ever went in there. Said bad things would happen to anyone that did”

“Why does everyone insist on these ridiculous stories?” asked Sherlock. “It’s trees. Anything else is merely a figment of overactive imaginations. Lestrade, take us there.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the cop. “You don’t know where you’re going.”

Greg gave a long-suffering sigh, but led them back to the car. They drove farther out of the village, the cop giving Greg directions until they turned down what might have once been a dirt road, finally stopping before a dark patch of woods.

“There you go,” she said, looking warily at the trees.

Sherlock grumbled and got out of the car, holding the leaf up. John noticed that they matched, even though they were far from the missing man’s home. Sherlock started for the treeline. John hurried to keep up, glancing back at the car.

“I’ll wait here,” said Greg, “make some calls.”

John nodded and plunged out of the afternoon sun and into the dimness of the trees. The place smelled vaguely familiar, as if he’d been here in a dream. Sherlock was already a few paces ahead of him and he hurried to catch up. A vague sense of foreboding prickled his skin, but he shook it off. Just shadows.

Still, his hand tightened around his gun.

Heedless, Sherlock walked through the woods as if he knew exactly what he was doing, which John strongly suspected he didn’t. The air grew thick around them.

“Sherlock?” he asked after a little ways.

“Here,” said Sherlock, stopping in a clearing that was mysteriously circular. 

John felt goosebumps. “What’s here?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock moved around the circle, muttering under his breath words that John didn’t understand.

Suddenly, the ground seemed to fall away from their feet.

John briefly wondered if this is what Alice felt like going down the rabbit hole.

The ground caught them sooner than he expected, knocking the wind out of John. Shaking his head he sat up. The sky looked _wrong_ somehow. As he got to his feet he realized his gun was gone. And so was Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to beltainefaire for helping spark the idea. And songlin and HumsHappily for giving it a read and encouragement,


End file.
